


what understanding defies

by liquidsky



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Dan's looking at him, face impassive, hands moving almost imperceptibly as he writes something down on his notebook. Phil wants to peek, has to bite the inside of his cheeks to curb the impulse of begging Dan to share what he's written so far.//Inspired byThe TowerbyVienna Teng





	what understanding defies

**Author's Note:**

> my second song for the mini-fest is called **[the tower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUVRLiQhUrk)** by **vienna teng**. another song that i hadn't heard before, though this time it was a little bit more similar to what i usually listen to.

Phil's tired. Too tired, probably, unhealthily so, sitting by the edge of the bed with his shoes placed neatly one next to the other next to his feet, which won't stop tapping against the floor.

Dan's looking at him, face impassive, hands moving almost imperceptibly as he writes something down on his notebook. Phil wants to peek, has to bite the inside of his cheeks to curb the impulse of begging Dan to share what he's written so far. It can't be done—it's not the point of this, if there's even a point at all, and Phil has trouble swallowing around the words, does it anyway. 

“Has it been getting worse?” Dan asks. He doesn't sound knowing, or shrewd, or much like anything other than like someone who'd take whatever Phil chooses to say at face value. 

“It's always been bad,” Phil tells him. “It's not–I don't think it can get any worse.” 

“Is that a good thing?” Dan questions, a split-second frown curving his lips downward before he schools his expression back into something neutral. 

Phil doesn't answer right away, instead watches as Dan watches him, catalogues the charming shape of Dan's nose and the warm brown of his eyes and how he looks like he hasn't gotten a haircut in over a year. He looks at Dan because it's the only way to stop his eyes from sliding to the people standing next to him—all three of them, standing tall, not quite white, their skins like the pages of old books back in his grandmother’s collection in the Island of Man, yellowed by the sea air. They’re covered in bruises and wrinkles, bloodshot eyes sad as they stare at Phil. It's exhausting. Their constant presence feels too heavy, suffocating, and he can't meet their gaze, not when he already feels as if he's lived a thousand lifetimes. 

“It’s as close to good as it'll get,” Phil says when the silence's dragged on for too long. He shrugs and Dan's lips twitch. He wants to say something, Phil notices. 

There's always a twitch to his lips when he wants to say more than he thinks he should. Another one of the many Dan–related details he’s been obsessively storing in his brain over the past two weeks. Evidence, maybe, but he's not sure of what – his nails are too long and shaped funny, which led Phil to the conclusion that Dan used to bite them and has only recently let go of the habit. He wears tight trousers, meaning he's probably interested in fashion and definitely cares about his appearance. Phil's watched Dan pop tablets that he'd later identified as B12 vitamins a few times in the cafeteria, from which he deduced that Dan must be vegan. His calligraphy is careful, very round, from which Phil was able to identify nothing other than it looked _nice_ , warm, like the person it belongs to. 

Phil has tried to justify his incessant curiosity, but at the end of the day he's just—he’s tired, and Dan's human, his skin soft and plump, his laugh loud, his eyes lively and kind. So Phil likes him, probably more than advisable for the nature of their relationship. 

“Will you tell me again? About the ghosts?” Dan says, and Phil sighs. 

“You don't think they're real,” Phil argues, though he knows that's not exactly true. He's visited an astonishing amount of therapists and psychiatrists over the years, and while most of them had looked at Phil with something too close to contempt, Dan hasn't. 

“You think they're real,” Dan tells him, “And that's enough for me,”

“Ok,” Phil answers. It's not ideal, but it is what it is. “I see them all the time. Have since I was a kid. Pretty scary stuff, you know, for a kid to see such–mangled, I think that's the word I'm looking for. Such mangled bodies just standing around, all the time.” 

“And have they always communicated with you?” Dan asks, and Phil drags his eyes away from the slope of his shoulders to watch as one of the three figures standing next to Dan presses their purple fingers to the back of Dan's seat. 

Dan's slight change in posture suggests that he’s noticed that he's not the only thing holding Phil’s attention, and Phil shakes his head, meets Dan’s eyes again. 

“Yes,” is the simple answer, so that's what he gives Dan. The answer closer to the truth would be that sometimes they don't, sometimes they just drag their feet around and keep Phil company, the sorrow in their eyes and the marks on their bodies too overwhelming to ignore. They demand his attention whether or not they _communicate_ , is what he's learned, and things fare better when it's given to them. 

“To ask for help?” Dan continues. Phil's pretty sure that that's in his file. It's not too far off what he's told his previous therapist, but the question barely sounds the same in Dan's crisp accent and amiable tone. 

“Usually, yeah,” Phil agrees, “so I do what I can, and if I manage, they move on.” 

“Where to?” is Dan's next question, and he sounds genuinely curious for a second, neutrality slipping away for the blink of an eye. 

“I wouldn't know,” says Phil, “I'd hope it's to somewhere good, but I've never been particularly good at speculation.”

“That doesn't seem true,” Dan points out, and Phil smiles – it's not. 

“Caught me,” Phil admits, and Dan grins back at him, both sides of his face dimpling in a way that makes him look suddenly younger. 

The tallest of the figures inches their fingers closer to the back of Dan's neck, then, and Phil's grin slides off his face. Dan narrows his eyes, watches Phil with calculating seriousness before glancing sideways. Phil sucks in a breath, and Dan's gaze snaps back to him. 

“Why are you here now, then?” Dan asks. That's a different question than most – people often assume Phil's there because he's ready to admit to insanity, because he's afraid, because he's unsure. He's not any of those things. “If you don't doubt that they're real, why are you here?”

“I’m tired,” Phil tells him. “It gets lonely, you know, not talking about these things. I guess I’m just here so I can.”

“Even if I might think you’re crazy,” Dan questions, and there’s carefulness in the arch of his brows and the softness in his eyes as he looks at Phil. The thing is: most people do. Phil has yet to meet anyone who hasn’t flinched in the face of his everpresent oddity – there’s an unsettling _something_ always brimming within him, and though no one’s ever quite understood what it was exactly, it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

Dan’s noticed, too, Phil knows, but he’s hasn’t flinched. He looks at Phil steady on, gaze serious, mouth pinched, fingers tight where they’re wrapped around his pen. 

“Even if you think I’m crazy,” Phil tells him, and he doesn’t know what he could possibly say next – how to explain the astounding loneliness that looms over him, looking death in the eye every miserable day, rooted so deeply that it drives him to go searching for people who have never managed to hide the plaintive tone in which they label him crazy. 

Dan doesn’t take his eyes off Phil, and it’s as unnerving as it is exhilarating. Around him, the figures loom, bloodied spit gathering in the corners of their mouths, their dead eyes leaving Phil to focus on Dan. They’re not scary on purpose, Phil knows this, but he can’t help but want to bat their prying fingers away. He’ll help them. He doesn’t know how _not_ to, after all, but he still wishes– He wishes he didn’t see them, wishes that his life was a different one, that he wasn’t hyper-aware of their mourning and of how much they need him. He wants so many things, all at once, for life to be simple, to not be lonely, to be _normal_. 

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Dan says, finally, and it’s surprising. Phil’s mouth falls open, and the figure standing next to Dan pauses, too, tilts their head, regards Dan with curiosity. Dan doesn’t notice – he lets go of his notebook to lean forward in his chair and shake his head softly. 

“You don’t,” Phil asks, voice very quiet, and Dan looks up at him. 

“You keep–” Dan starts. Phil doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even breathe as Dan pauses, exhales heavily, “You keep looking at something behind me and trying to seem like you’re not,”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not crazy,” Phil argues, just for the sake of it, because no one’s ever believed him before and it seems too easy, too unlikely. 

“No,” Dan agrees, “But there’s something–I can feel it, sometimes, when I’m around you. We’re alone here but we’re not, not really,”

Dan’s right – Phil glances at the figures, watches carefully as they lean closer to Dan, their bony hands moving forward when Dan follows Phil’s gaze and turns to inspect the air next to him. Their hands are inches away from Dan’s face now, and Phil leaps from the bed. They pause, and Dan shivers. 

“They’re close,” Dan guesses, and Phil nods. “What do you usually–how–”

“They tell me what they need,” Phil says, “Or sometimes they don’t and I figure it out anyway,”

“And then?” Dan asks, and Phil can see that he’s pressing himself back against the cushions of his seat, face turned pale. 

“Then I do whatever they need me to, I guess,” is Phil’s answer. Dan sighs, runs his hands through his hair. Phil shrugs, “I’m happy you believe me, but you don’t have to–whatever you’re thinking now, you don’t have to.”

Dan nods, “I know,” then, “I’m going to anyway, if that’s ok,”

Phil looks at him, at the obstinate jut of his chin, the shape of his lips. He nods, “Thanks,”

“What you said before, about being lonely,” Dan tells him, quietly, “I don’t want you to be. So yeah, you’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> not to be the person that writes a full essay in the end notes, but my goal for 2019 was to take part in the phandom fic fest every month and so far it's going pretty well. i'm being more productive with writing than i've been in the past two years, which is pretty exciting. 
> 
> another thing: i decided last month that i was gonna start taking a more relaxed approach to writing and just work on whatever i find interesting and/or fun, so that's why this doesn't really have a beginning. or an ending. mostly there's just a lot of middle. which i'd love to pretend was more of a stylistic choice and less of a "shit, i won't have time to build a whole new universe but i also _really_ wanna write about ghosts" situation. well!
> 
> once again, this is unbeta'd so any and all mistakes are my own, feel free to let me know in the comments if you find any typos that could be easily corrected. thank you very much for reading! (oh, and i'm [unhawkeye](https://www.unhawkeye.tumblr.com) on tumblr if anyone wants to come hang out)


End file.
